Saturday, August 19, 2006


His kite flies high
at the winds insistence,
and he is tense
like a telegraph wire plucked by crows
provoking him to thought,
here, a sliver of just desserts,
sweet and delicate,
a taste as fragile as a meringue,
melts on his lips with regret
for the day when he stopped whistling,
the original shingle
sifts between his fingers,
as he lies on the speckled bank,
delight having lost its tongue
to the retreating tide,
carefully he feeds kite string to the sky,
and feels the dead weight in every inch,
yet still he wishes he could
rattle the dusty squeeze box,
and press bright blue tunes from his lips
to relieve the gravity of yearning
to fly up with a slip stream,
whistling unchained melodies.


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